Chapter 3: Saturday Night, Week One

The atmosphere in Linda’s house on Saturday evening was a bizarre cocktail of surgical preparation and illicit anticipation. The air itself seemed to hum with a low, nervous energy. There were no friendly greetings, no offers of wine. The five women moved through the familiar rooms like ghosts, their usual camaraderie replaced by a focused, almost grim silence. Each was preparing her assigned space, her assigned role.

Linda, the architect, was in her element. She had drawn the first lot for the pool house, a small, secluded building at the far end of the yard, its interior warm and humid from the day’s sun. The space had a small futon, neatly made up with fresh sheets. Her assigned lesson: Cowgirl. She had placed a small bottle of water and a box of tissues on a side table. It felt like setting a stage for a very specific, very intimate play. She smoothed the sheets for the tenth time, her stomach a tight knot of nerves and a thrumming, undeniable excitement.

Inside the house, the other women were in their respective rooms. Carol was in the guest room, which was decorated in soothing beiges and blues. She’d drawn Oral, focused on him. She wasn’t nervous; she was impatient. She checked her reflection in the mirror, adjusting the neckline of her dark silk robe. She felt a predator’s cool thrill. She was about to give Linda’s golden boy, Jason, a lesson he would never forget.

Anjali was in the finished basement, a large, carpeted space with a sectional sofa. She had drawn Missionary. She had pushed the coffee table aside to create a clear space on the floor, laying down a thick, comfortable blanket. Her approach was methodical. She had already undressed and put on a simple, comfortable cotton robe. For her, this was a practical exercise in pedagogy. The mechanics of intimacy.

Maria was in the home office, a small room dominated by a large desk and bookshelves. She had drawn Oral, focused on her. She was a wreck. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She’d tried to put on something seductive—a lacy black chemise—but now she felt exposed and foolish. She kept wondering what Ben, Anjali’s serious, quiet son, would think. Would he be repulsed? Would he be able to perform? The anxiety was a live wire under her skin.

And Chloe was in Linda’s master bedroom. She had drawn the room no one wanted: Doggie style, including anal. The king-sized bed was immense, the comforter a deep burgundy. She stood by the window, looking out at the dark shape of the pool house, where Linda waited. She felt a profound sense of dread. She was to be with Noah, Carol’s son. The sarcastic, sharp-witted boy. How could she possibly assume a position of such vulnerability and submission with him? The act itself terrified her, but the thought of failing the group, of being the one who couldn’t go through with it, terrified her more. She wrapped her arms around herself, waiting for the knock on the door.

At precisely 7:00 PM, the front door opened. The five young men filed in. There was no joking, no punching of shoulders. The usual easygoing dynamic of their friendship had been replaced by a palpable, awkward tension. They stood in the foyer, a group of handsome, nervous boys trying to look like men.

On the hall table were five envelopes, each with a name. Linda’s doing, of course.

Jason reached for his first. He opened it, his hands steady. “Pool house,” he read aloud, his voice flat. “Cowgirl.” He didn’t look at the others, just turned and walked through the living room towards the sliding glass doors, his jaw set.

Mark grabbed his next. “Basement. Missionary.” He grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. “Classic. I like it.” He clapped Ben on the shoulder and headed for the basement stairs, his steps light with anticipation.

Ben opened his envelope. “Office. Oral, focus on her.” His cheeks flushed a dark red, but his expression remained somber. He adjusted his glasses and walked toward the closed office door without a word.

Noah found his name. “Master bedroom. Doggie. Anal.” He let out a low whistle. “Starting with the advanced course, huh?” He glanced at Leo with a raised eyebrow, then sauntered down the hall towards the master suite.

Leo was last. He picked up the final envelope. “Guest room. Oral, focus on him.” He looked at the closed guest room door, behind which Carol waited. He took a deep, slow breath, then walked forward and knocked softly.

The house fell into a silence broken only by the soft click of five doors closing.

The Pool House: Linda and Jason – The Curriculum of Control

The knock on the pool house door was solid, a testament to Jason’s strength, but the hesitation in the two raps that followed betrayed the boy inside the football star. Linda, already positioned in the center of the small, humid room, called out, “It’s open.”

Jason stepped inside, filling the doorway. He’d dressed carefully—a clean t-shirt, jeans—trying to project a cool he couldn’t possibly feel. His eyes, however, darted around, refusing to settle on her for more than a second. Linda stood waiting, her posture erect. She wore a black lace teddy that left little to the imagination, the fabric a stark web against her pale, meticulously maintained skin.

“Close the door, Jason,” she said, her voice calm, brooking no argument. The click of the latch was deafening. “The lesson tonight is Cowgirl. That means I am in charge of the pace, the depth, the rhythm. Your role is to listen, feel, and learn. The first rule, before any of that, is safety.” She gestured to the small table where a box of condoms sat next to a bottle of water. “We use protection. Every time. No exceptions. I don’t need a senior in diapers because a freshman got a surprise. Understood?”

He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed. “Yeah. Understood.”

“Good.” She approached him, entering his personal space with an authority that made him straighten his spine. “Let’s get you comfortable.” Her hands went to the hem of his shirt. “Arms up.”

He obeyed, and she pulled the cotton over his head, her fingers brushing the hard, defined planes of his stomach. She let her palms roam over his chest, feeling the rapid, thumping beat of his heart. “You’re nervous. That’s normal. Breathe through it.”

Her fingers found the button of his jeans, then the zipper. She popped them open and pushed everything down his powerful thighs—jeans, boxers—in one efficient, practiced motion. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and flushed with youthful blood. Linda didn’t gasp or praise; she simply assessed him with a cool, approving gaze, as if evaluating a fine tool. “Impressive,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Now, lie down.”

He moved to the futon and lay back, his erection a stark flagpole against his stomach. Linda didn’t join him immediately. Instead, she let the straps of her teddy slide from her shoulders. She turned slightly, allowing the black lace to slither down her body and pool at her feet. She stood before him completely naked. Her body was not a girl’s; it was a woman’s—toned, curved, with the soft evidence of a life lived. She saw the shock of awe in his eyes, and a potent thrill of power coursed through her.

She didn’t mount him. Not yet. She lay down beside him on the narrow futon, her body aligned with his. “The lesson begins with connection,” she murmured, her face close to his. “Not just bodies. Minds.” She leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t a frantic, teenage smash of lips. It was a deep, exploratory invasion. Her tongue swept into his mouth, teaching him a rhythm. At first, he was stiff, but then he melted into it, his own tongue tentatively meeting hers.

When she broke the kiss, she guided his hand to her breast. “Touch me. Not like you’re grabbing a handle. Like you’re appreciating something exquisite.” She placed his fingertips on her nipple, showing him how to circle, to tease. The peak hardened instantly under his touch. “Good,” she breathed. Then, she lowered her head to his chest. She took one of his small, flat nipples into her mouth, sucking gently, then swirling her tongue. He gasped. She moved to his neck, nibbling the sensitive skin just below his ear. He jerked as a jolt of pleasure shot through him. “A woman’s entire body is a map of pleasure, Jason. Learn to read it.”

Only when his breathing was ragged and his cock was leaking a clear bead of moisture did she move to the main event. She knelt over him, straddling his hips. She tore open a condom packet with her teeth. “Your turn. Put it on.” Her voice was a husky command.

His hands trembled slightly as he rolled the latex down his length. The act itself felt intensely intimate, a prelude to what was coming.

“Now,” she whispered, positioning him at her entrance. She was already wet, her slick heat a shocking sensation against the condom-clad tip of his cock. “Watch.” With a deliberate, controlled motion, she sank down onto him, sheathing him completely in her tight, warm depths.

“Oh, fuck,” Jason groaned, his head falling back, his eyes squeezing shut. The feeling was utterly consuming.

“Eyes on me,” Linda commanded. He forced his eyes open, meeting her gaze. She began to move. It wasn’t just an up-and-down piston motion. It was a complex, grinding, circular dance of her hips. She rode him with the expertise of decades, angling herself so his shaft rubbed perfectly against her clit with every rise and fall. The futon creaked a steady rhythm underneath them. She moaned, a low, genuine sound of pleasure, and he watched, mesmerized.

“This is control,” she said, her breath starting to hitch. “This is a woman taking her pleasure. Now, thrust up into me. Now. Hard.”

He obeyed, driving upward to meet her downward stroke. The impact was spectacular, a deep, satisfying collision that wrenched a choked cry from his throat.